The Killing Club (2 page)

Bertrand waved to the driver and he and his golden retriever walked forward on to the broad woodland path beyond the stout five-bar gate. Barney was no longer in his bounding prime and preferred to amble and sniff at his leisure. Sometimes he would freeze into stillness, head cocked, listening for movements in the grass, awaiting the opportunity to track some of the small creatures inhabiting the wood. He never caught anything which was still moving, but he would occasionally bring Bernard the sad dead body of a rabbit or a wood pigeon, held gently in his long jaw.

Bernard went ahead, leaving Barney to snuffle to his heart’s content. This evening there was a pale lemon rind moon rising, a nip in the air and the sweet smell of freshly cut and sawn wood pervading the atmosphere. Bernard’s heart lifted with the pleasure of it all. He reflected on his day, recalling the kindly smile of the practice nurse, the exhilaration of cutting through the water in the pool. And then he thought ahead to the next day when he would be in charge of his grandson for several hours. Life’s not so bad, he thought, even when you’re on the wrong side of seventy. He walked on, making steady progress, occasionally glancing back to check that Barney was following.

As he approached the turning to the stone steps leading up to the crag, he turned once more – but Barney was nowhere to be seen. Bernard waited. Elderly dogs could take their time sniffing, and he had the patience to wait. Five minutes went by. Then five more. Bernard felt a twinge of anxiety. He turned and retraced his steps, calling out to Barney as he went. He got back to the gate and there was no sign of the dog. This had not happened before, Barney being the most reliable and biddable of dogs. Had he been stolen? There’d been a spate of pedigree dogs going missing lately. And Barney was an amiable chap; maybe he’d go with someone who knew how to put a dog at ease, someone with a pocketful of cooked steak.

He squared his shoulders. He pulled himself together and walked back again the way he had come until he was almost back again to the base of the steps. His heart was beating hard now. He tried not to picture a life without Barney. That would come in time, but not yet, the old boy had a few years left in him.

As he stood very still, he became deeply aware of the quietness all around. Well, it was getting on for 6.00, a time when workers were coming home, when folks were preparing supper, when families were already eating. It was always quiet at this time of day.

He heard a rustling sound, the noise of twigs snapping. His heart leapt. ‘Barney – here boy!’ There was only silence again. He moved off the path, walking towards the noise he had heard. The terrain was carpeted in thick grass, interspersed with small hilly folds of land, which provided a perfect home for bilberry bushes. The head of the crag loomed above, but the approach was still mainly flat. And then suddenly there was one single plaintiff howl, followed by an indignant outbreak of barking. And then dead silence. Bertrand followed the sound. Behind one of the bushy outcrops at the start of the steep hill he saw the flash of a blond tail. He hurried forwards. And there he was. His lovely Barney. Thank God! Nose down, tail wagging – as right as rain.

‘Ay, what are you doing, lad?’ Bertrand was half amused, half angry to have been caused all this unnecessary angst. And the dog was still not taking a blind bit of notice of him, his tail wagging in excited alarm rather than simple pleasure.

As he walked forward, Barney suddenly turned, eyeing his master and letting out one single bark, before returning to the focus of his attention.

What the hell had he found, Bertrand grumbled to himself. He halted in his tracks. The answer lay before his eyes. He felt a sensation of icy cold water trickle down his spine. It flashed through his mind that there was a first time for everything. And he wished he had not been selected to be on the receiving end of this particular one.

Home for Ed Swift was currently a cottage on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors. Following the dramatic events of the year before, when his daughter had been held hostage in his apartment by a mentally disturbed murderer, he had decided to make some changes in his life. He had told his superintendent that he would take three months’ unpaid leave, starting as soon as permission was granted by the Chief Constable. Superintendent Finch had been none too pleased, but he had nevertheless done all he could to implement Swift’s decision. By the spring of the following year, Swift had cleared his desk, sold his apartment on the north west side of Bradford and settled into his new place.

The cottage had been recommended to him by one of the administrative staff who had a farmer friend looking for a reliable tenant for one of his cottages. He had driven out into the National Park to have a look at it one April evening when the sun and the moon had both been out, regarding each other across a sky of soft baby blue. Sheep, which he later learned were Swaledales, were tearing at the grass at the sides of the narrow roads. They leapt about as the car approached, displaying blind panic rather than any sense of purpose or direction.

The road curved its way down a hill to a ford where a silver tongue of water glinted over the lowest point, then wound back up the hill and gradually disintegrated into a stony track ending at a tall, rusty gate. There was a wooden sign saying
Ferndale Farm
in letters that looked as though they had been carved by a six-year-old. A muddy, shaggy-haired white horse stood behind the gate, regarding Swift with solemn brown eyes. He left the car and made his way through the gate, following the stone footpath that led down to the cottage which stood in a hollow some way behind the farmhouse. Its thick stone walls were brushed with gold from the setting sun, and the dark-green moors beyond looked majestic, peaceful and curiously enticing.

The farmer had arranged to leave the cottage key in what he had referred to as the conservatory, which to Swift looked like little more than half a greenhouse, leaning against the wall at the side of the front door. Security not an issue here, he thought, as he located the large old-fashioned key beneath a clay pot housing a pretty cyclamen which he guessed had been put there earlier in the day.

Inside the cottage was exactly as he had expected an unrenovated cottage in the Dales to be – the bathroom furnished with a cracked porcelain lavatory and an enamel bath weeping rusty stains, the kitchen housing little except a pot sink full of dead flies and an old gas cooker. In the sitting room there were sturdy wood beams running across the ceiling, a bare wooden floor and a small, but rather fine cast-iron fireplace. The main bedroom had two windows, one facing south towards the farmhouse, the other due north to the moors.

He walked around for a while, imagining waking up in the morning to a view of the protective hills. And then he began to consider what restoration work he might do in the place, and a surge of excitement sprang up within. He recalled the early days of his marriage, the small flat he and Kate had rented, the skills he had learned in painting and joinery in order to make the place a pleasure to live in. Skills long out of use, but which he was sure would soon come back.

The farmer, a lean man in his forties, now making the major part of his living from renting out agricultural machinery, had been most apologetic for what he considered the shortcomings of the cottage and had asked for a ridiculously low rent. Swift had protested and had embarked on a curious, inverse bargaining session, attempting to persuade the farmer to up the fees. He had not been very successful, but the farmer had reassured him that any renovations he wished to make would be absolutely fine.

On this particular July morning Swift was painting the skirting boards in the hallway. He had the front door open so he could appreciate the sweet morning air at the same time. Looking up to check out the way the weather was going, he saw a woman making her way across the field towards the farmhouse. She was tall and straight-backed, wearing spiky-heeled shoes totally inappropriate for making progress along a stony path. As she came nearer, he recognized her and smiled to himself. Parking his paint brush in a tin filled with turpentine, he went into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. As she arrived at the front door, he was there to greet her before she had time to knock. ‘Superintendent Stratton.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Come in.’

For a moment she looked startled, although her grasp was firm and confident. ‘Ah, I see news travels fast around here.’

‘I still have the occasional drink with members of my team,’ he said, as he ushered her through the door. ‘They like to keep me informed on items of importance. Like a new boss.’

‘Then you’ll know I’m only standing in whilst Damian’s … recovering,’ she said, clearly unhappy about using the word ‘stroke’ with regard to their colleague’s recent medical problems.

Swift nodded and pointed to the sitting room. ‘Do go through and sit down. I was making coffee; do you want some?’

‘Yes.’ But she declined his offer to sit in the front room and followed him through to the kitchen, leaning against the counter and watching him put coffee beans in the grinder. She stared around, noting the pale granite work tops and the dazzling white paint. ‘So,’ she said, ‘besides being a detective you’re a DIY man.’

Swift felt the vibrations beneath his fingers as the beans whirred against the grinder blades. The alluring scent of fresh coffee crept into the atmosphere. He smiled and made no comment.

Stratton seemed to have made herself at home. She moved to stand at the window which looked out towards the moors, running her fingers along the inner stone sill which was six inches thick. ‘That is the real deep dark countryside out there,’ she commented. ‘The back of beyond, is the term, I believe. Don’t you feel a little isolated?’

‘I’ve taken to it like a duck to water,’ he said. He poured coffee into two mugs and glanced at her.

‘Black, two spoons of sugar,’ she commented.

He placed a mug and a sugar basin in front of her. She dug her spoon into the golden crystals, stirred thoroughly, then took a swallow of the resultant dark, sweet mixture.

‘So what can I do for you, Superintendent?’ he asked.

‘This is an informal visit, so please call me Ravi,’ she said.

Informal, he thought. I don’t think so.

‘I know that you’re on leave, Ed. I’ve looked through your file and I’m aware of the reasons for your wanting to take some time off. I’m also aware that I’m making a big presumption in dropping in on you like this, so I won’t waste any of your time beating about the bush. You’ll already have guessed that I’m going to try to persuade you to consider cutting short your leave and heading up a case.’

He glanced out of the window, registering the dark comforting bulk of the hills. ‘Go on.’

‘Have you caught up with the local news this morning?’ she asked.

‘I did hear a brief item about a body being found at Fellbeck Crag.’

‘That’s what I’m referring to. We had to release information of the death speedily, and also remove the body. As you know, the crag is a very well-used leisure area. Cordoning the whole of it off for an extended period wasn’t really an option.’

Swift agreed. Cordoning off a large area, with numerous entry points, which contained a white investigation tent which in turn contained a body was a sure-fire way of drawing the crowds and possibly creating public panic.

‘SOCOs have been working through the night,’ Stratton told him, ‘but there’s not likely to be much in the way of useful evidence.’

‘Death in open ground,’ Swift said, recalling a case some years back when a young girl’s body had been found on Howarth moors. ‘My very first CID superintendent used to say it was one of the most difficult crime scenes to squeeze information from.’

Stratton nodded. ‘And the weather has been dry for the last few days, so little chance of getting footprints.’

‘And, of course, the area is daily trampled over by hundreds of feet, paws, bicycle tyres … you name it!’ Swift observed. ‘Any witnesses come forward so far?’

‘No,’ Stratton said. ‘Not a good start, I’m afraid. But still, it’s only early days.’

‘So what are we looking at?’ Swift asked. ‘Foul play? Murder?’ Clearly, a superintendent in the Homicide and Major Enquiry team would not be dabbling in accidental death enquiries.

‘We’re not sure until the pathologist’s examination is complete. However, we are able to say at this stage that the dead man has severe injuries to the back of the head and that his clothes had been set alight, causing significant damage to his trunk and arms.’

So hardly likely to be an accident, he thought. He watched her as she patted the hair at the back of her neck, as though checking that it was all in order. She had no need to worry on that score. Her long black hair was arranged in an immaculately sculpted upended cone shape running down the back of her head. He thought the style was called a French pleat, and that it had been fashionable back in the 60s. He’d ask Naomi next time they spoke. And he guessed that the superintendent’s patting of her hair was more to do with her sense of unease in interrupting his period of leave and offering a potentially thorny case than her concern regarding the neatness of her hair.

‘Do we have an ID?’ Swift asked.

She shook her head. ‘No. And his pockets were empty apart from £30 in notes and some loose change. No wallet, no phone, no credit card.’

‘So our perpetrator wasn’t some youngster after cash,’ Swift observed, his interest now fully aroused.

‘It wouldn’t seem so.’

‘And my team?’ Swift asked, adding wryly, ‘I presume you wouldn’t expect me to me to come out of my country hidey-hole and conduct a one-man investigation?’

‘Of course not.’ Stratton looked deeply concerned and held up her hands in recognition of the absurdity of this proposed job description, giving Swift the impression that she was not a woman who thrived on irony. ‘Your team colleague, Laura Ferguson, is on a development course in Bristol and Doug Wilson is in Australia visiting relatives,’ Stratton elaborated.

Swift thought of the young, bright Laura, and the stoical middle-aged Doug, always ready to do the footwork which others shied away from. He would miss their support but there would be other cases to work on with them, in the future.

‘I’ve been doing some careful thinking on whom we might draft in to work with you.’ Stratton’s words were enunciated with slow and almost laboured carefulness. Swift found himself wondering how she fitted in with her high-ranking colleagues who were mainly male and given to sardonic one-liners with a generous peppering of blasphemy.

He nodded acknowledgement and waited for the result of her deliberations.

‘I have got in mind Inspector Catherine Fallon,’ Stratton said. ‘You’ll probably know that she has been working in our team in Bradford Central division for some time. She’s recently indicated a wish for a transfer in order to support us in the North West division. I spoke to her earlier this morning and asked her to consider a place on our team and to be available as soon as possible to assist you on this case. She agreed – quite readily, in fact.’

Swift sensed an inward jolt. ‘I’ve worked with Inspector Fallon before,’ he told Stratton, deciding to leave it at that, not to mention anything of his and Cat’s close friendship in the past. He wondered how it would feel to work with her, and soon decided that the phrase ‘mixed feelings’ best fitted the bill. ‘She’s a very good detective,’ he said, formally. ‘I’d be glad to have her on the team.’

‘Naturally, I shall give you access to any other support you need,’ Stratton said. ‘And, of course, I shall be pleased to act as consultant and supervisor as long as I’m in post here.’

Swift glanced out of the window. In the field beyond the strip of back garden a hawk hung in the air, still and menacing.

‘Will you at least think about it?’ she asked.

He turned back to her. ‘Yes.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Yes, you’ll think?’

‘Yes, I’ll agree to your proposal,’ he said, reaching for the coffee pot and giving them both a refill.